


He who fights with monsters

by Lyrial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As Castiel looks down at the angel blade in his hand, its silver stained bright red with blood, he thinks</i>—this is not how it’s supposed to end.</p>
<p>In heaven, Castiel has to make a hard decision about Metatron’s ultimate fate. </p>
<p>On earth, Dean Winchester prays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He who fights with monsters

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR THE S9 FINALE! 
> 
> People who haven't seen it, turn back while you still can!

As Castiel looks down at the angel blade in his hand, its silver stained bright red with blood, he thinks— _this is not how it’s supposed to end_.

There is no triumph, no exultant vindication at having outwitted a vastly superior foe. Instead, there is only the cold satisfaction of knowing that Metatron’s threat has been neutralized, and he will harm no one again.

There is a curious absence of feeling in him. Castiel feels empty, as though all the emotion has drained out of him except for a grim, cold anger. It feels like something intrinsic in him has been burnt away, as though there is a gaping hole in his very being, far more than loss of his wings, far more painful than even Metatron’s forced extraction of his grace.

Castiel has won. Metatron is defeated, his plans foiled. Heaven is free once again.

And yet Castiel’s victory- if it can be called a victory at all- is pyrrhic, and tastes too much like bitter ashes at the back of his throat.

When Castiel meets Metatron’s gaze again, Castiel fancies that he can see a hint of something approaching true fear in the other angel’s eyes.

And Metatron is an angel now, Castiel realizes- an ordinary angel, not a God. Castiel could end him easily if he so chose. The blade is in his hand now. It would take no more than a single stab, a burst of light and the flare of grace—and Metatron would be gone, nothing left but a charred remnant of his wings. The same wings he burned out of Castiel and his fellow angels. It would truly be a stroke of poetic justice.

The blade in his hand is still slippery with Dean’s blood. Castiel thinks about plunging the hateful thing into Metatron’s chest, watching him scream as the grace blazes out of him. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. _Lex Talionis._

Castiel holds up the blood-slicked blade and watches Metatron’s eyes widen in fear.

Had Dean been afraid too when he died? Had Metatron killed him swiftly, or had he drawn it out, made Dean suffer? Castiel knows all too well Metatron’s love for playing with his victims, like a cat with a mouse. He is fond of grandiose, self-indulgent speeches, of pontificating to a beaten, unwilling audience. Had Dean lain there, dying slowly as Metatron gloated, waiting in vain for Castiel to break the tablet, waiting for a salvation that never came?

Castiel’s grip tightens on the blade.

But Dean is dead now, and Castiel’s single greatest reason for killing Metatron is gone. There is no point anymore. Dean is dead, and Metatron can harm him no longer. Dean is dead, and _Castiel doesn’t know what to do._

The stolen grace still burns inside him, a slow, pulsating pain that Castiel is almost used to now, but which is ever-present nevertheless.

The Castiel of old would have killed Metatron in a blink. After all he’s done, it is only just retribution. Not to mention, a small dark voice deep inside him whispers, it would solve the problems he still has with his stolen grace.

But being with the Winchesters- being _human_ \- has taught him the value of mercy.

He stares at Metatron, indecision gripping him. Hannah, her blade still held against the back of Metatron’s neck, looks at him evenly, waiting patiently for him to make a decision, and the utter trust in her eyes is disarming. Castiel doesn’t want to see that faith, so newly restored, vanish from her eyes. He cannot bear the thought of disappointing her yet again.

_You have a reputation for honor,_ he remembers Gadreel saying.

Castiel lets the blade fall, and doesn’t react as the tension sags out of Metatron’s shoulders and Hannah’s face lights into a smile.

Inside, he feels cold and empty and terribly, terribly alone.

 

Later as Metatron sits in his cell, Hannah turns to Castiel and tells him that he’s doing the right thing, the thing a leader would do. Castiel doesn’t feel any pride at her approval, only bitterness and a bone-deep longing.

Hannah asks about his grace, and the worry in her voice would be touching if Castiel wasn’t feeling so numb. “You will die if you don’t replenish it,” she insists.

But Castiel finds that he doesn’t care.

Dean is dead, and Castiel may join him soon, but maybe… maybe he’s okay with that.

 

 ---

 

Dean can barely think through the haze of pain.

Sam is supporting most of his weight- he’s practically dragging Dean along by himself- but it takes most of Dean’s concentration just to put one foot before another. It’s a futile gesture. Dean knows in his heart that he’s not going to make it.

_Cas_ , he thinks desperately, and he is not sure if Cas can even hear his prayers anymore, but damn it he has to try. This might be his last chance.

_Cas… Wherever you are, I hope you’re safe. There’s so much more I wish we could do- so much more I wanted to say—_

Pain cuts through his thoughts, jarring and sharp. Dean takes a sharp breath, the air whistling through his punctured lung. Blood-speckled spittle trails down from his lips. It won’t be long now.

“Hold up,” he pants, and allows himself to sag down towards the ground. Sammy, bless him, doesn’t protest. He looks at Dean with so much love and concern that Dean hates himself for ever thinking that Sam had never cared.

“I gotta say something to you,” he grits out.

“What?” says Sam, voice strained. His eyes are wide with worry, a telling glint of wetness starting to form in them.

Dean wants to say that he is sorry for all the harsh words they’ve exchanged these past weeks, for the fighting, for his foolish stubbornness, for doubting even for a minute that Sam loved him just as much as Dean loved Sam. But there isn’t enough time. And he thinks- he thinks Sam knows it anyway.

“I’m proud of us,” he tells Sam, and he really means it.

They’ve been through so much together, the two of them. Sure, they’ve mucked up plenty, but at the end of the day, they’ve always tried their best to do what’s right and that’s really all that anyone could ask for.

He’s so proud of them- all of them- Sam and him and Cas. This is it, really. One last hurrah for team free will.

He thinks about Cas, about the angel he first met in a warehouse years ago, cold, dutiful, detached- an unsmiling, unquestioning servant of heaven’s will. He thinks of Cas now, so very changed. He thinks about how the corners of Cas’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his brows furrow when he is confused about something, the soft warmth in his gravelly voice as he asks after Dean’s wellbeing, and Dean feels a tremendous rush of longing.

Cas has sacrificed so much for Dean over the years. He has always seen the best in Dean, despite all of Dean’s flaws. He has always been there for Dean. He has always chosen Dean, even when it would be all that much easier for him not to. He is endlessly devoted, faithful beyond compare. Perhaps that is what Dean loves the most about him.

As the last of his consciousness begins to slip away, Dean Winchester prays.

_Thank you, Cas. For everything. I guess maybe there’s still a chance I’ll… see you- see you in heaven one day. I just wish we had— more time..._

As darkness descends upon him, Dean thinks, _I wish we had a second chance._

 

\---

 

It has been a while since Castiel has been so directly confronted with the fragility of human beings, the brutal briefness of their lives. In the back of his mind, he has always known that Dean Winchester would die. He knows this in the same detached, clinical manner that he knows that the sun shines and the grass is green. He has simply never allowed himself to truly consider the implications.

Humans die and the deserving ascend to their place in heaven; Castiel had never really given it much thought. It is the natural order. After death comes the eternal reward. There is no tragedy about this. It is after all a _reward_ , not a punishment. He had never thought that he would mourn the passing of any human being- even one as special as Dean, but it seems that Dean Winchester is forever teaching him new things, even from beyond the grave.

If Castiel still had his wings, if Heaven’s gates were still open, he could have flown to Dean in an instant. Instead he is forced to wait with ill-concealed impatience as the newly obedient members of Metatron’s inner circle prepare to open the portal.

If only the spell to lock Heaven’s gates had shattered along with the angel tablet, he would be able to see Dean in Heaven now. Instead, Dean’s soul is trapped with all the other souls of the deserving, trapped in between heaven and earth, unable to gain entry to his rightful place in heaven. Castiel aches at the injustice. Dean Winchester, more than any other human Castiel knows, deserves his happiness. He has been through so much pain and suffering in his life on earth. He has done so much, sacrificed so much, and he deserves his place in Paradise. But Metatron has denied him even this.

Castiel itches to do something other than stand around and wait for the portal spell to be completed. If the anxious shuffling of the angels around him is any indication, his annoyance is evident. They keep throwing him harried, nervous looks and Castiel hates it. He is no leader, he never has been. Every single time he attempted to take up the mantle of leadership, it ended in abject failure. So why do they keep insisting on thrusting this unwanted burden upon him?

Unable to bear the scrutiny of his siblings any longer, Castiel turns away. He wants a reprieve- he wants an escape- but most of all, he wants _Dean_ —

It takes only a moment of concentration for Castiel to locate Dean’s heaven, and a brief exertion of will to transport himself into it. Castiel may not have his wings, but he is in heaven, where distance is merely a notional concept. He looks around at his surroundings. Peeling wallpaper and a faint whiff of cigarette smoke greet him.

Only Dean Winchester would have his happiest memories set in seedy wayside motels, Castiel thinks to himself dryly as he takes in the dim lighting and incredibly tacky dime-store furnishings _._

Castiel looks around for Dean, and spots him sitting at the edge of his bed, head bowed, a beer in his hand. The sight of Dean, whole and safe, arrests him and for a moment Castiel just stands there and stares.

“Dean,” he breathes, the name slipping out before he can stop it, though he knows that the Dean he is looking at is nothing but a memory, unable to respond.

But Dean looks up and the smile that lights upon his face is breathtaking to behold. “Cas!” he calls out in greeting, and for one heart-stopping moment, Castiel thinks that Metatron’s spell has somehow failed, that Dean is here in heaven with him now and that everything is going to be alright.

But that brief illusion is shattered as a familiar trench coat clad figure strides past him from behind. Castiel stares numbly at the back of his doppelganger as it walks to the bed to join Dean there.

_Of course_ , Castiel thinks bitterly, _it was too good to have been true_. Knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better though.

“Dean,” the memory Castiel says by way of greeting as he sits down beside Dean.

Castiel edges closer to the pair on the bed. It feels strange to be looking at himself in this way, as part of Dean’s memories. He listens to the conversation in progress and finds himself frowning in bewilderment. As an angel, he has an eidetic memory, but it still takes him a moment to place these events. They are simply that unremarkable.

It is strange that this conversation, some banal exchange about trivialities that Castiel can barely be bothered to recall, would be one of Dean’s most treasured memories. As conversations go, this one is really plumbing the depths of dullness. The two of them have had more engaging conversations inside a _strip club_.

It is most puzzling.

But as Castiel watches, a silent observer, Dean’s memory-self turns to look at Castiel’s doppelganger. There is a warm look of fondness in his eyes. He places a hand upon Castiel’s shoulders for a brief moment as he laughs, before almost guiltily drawing it away. A faint flush rises on his cheeks. Beside him, memory-Castiel continues speaking blithely, completely oblivious.

Castiel watches, mouth dry. He had never really noticed it at that time. It is strange how many things seem so much more obvious in hindsight.

At the bed, sitting side by side, almost close enough to touch, the memory versions of Dean and Castiel continue to converse, but Castiel pays them no mind. He struggles to contemplate the implications of what he is seeing. His mind reels with a furious mixture of baffled disbelief mixed together with a tentative, fearful longing.

For the first time in a long while, Castiel dares to allow himself to hope. When Metatron’s spell is broken and the gates of Heaven are open once again, Dean will be here. And then maybe… there could be a future for them—

But something breaks through his thoughts.

There is a low whine building and a feeling of static all around him, like the air just before a great thunderstorm. Castiel tenses, settling into a wary stance. His surroundings have begun to distort and blur, like a camera lens going out of focus. All around him, objects are losing solidity, their forms dissipating into wisps of pure white light. Castiel looks around frantically, mouth dry. This shouldn’t be happening.

Dean’s heaven is collapsing around him, returning into the formlessness of raw heavenly firmament. Castiel can only watch, numb with shock as white light spreads across the landscape, a shining wave of destruction devouring everything in its path. Outside the motel windows, Castiel can see cars, roads, trees disappearing into nothingness as the light touches them. The walls of the motel fall away as the light sweeps forward, building towards a crescendo, rushing inexorably towards the epicenter of the memory.

The figures of Dean and Castiel on the bed are the very last things to go, a lone island in an endless sea of nothingness. In that last moment before the light touches them, Dean has his head thrown back, laughing uproariously at something that Castiel said. Castiel is frowning back at him, puzzled at Dean’s inappropriate amusement. The white light surrounds them like a nimbus, limning their figures for the briefest of moments before engulfing them in one final flash.

When the light clears, there is nothing left. It is as though Dean Winchester’s heaven had never existed.

 

Castiel looks around at the void where Dean’s heaven should be and he knows, deep in his heart, that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

 

\---

 

On earth, Dean Winchester wakes up with black eyes, and Crowley smiles. “Welcome back to the party, squirrel,” he says, “It’s time to rock and roll.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh darn I loved this episode. Everything was beautiful and ~~nothing~~ everything hurt. So obviously, I had to write something to make it hurt more ;D 
> 
> In all seriousness though, I was rather miffed Cas didn’t kill Metatron. I understand why the writers decided to make him show mercy in the end, but I’m certain Cas must have been awfully tempted to exact some revenge for Dean's death. This fic is my way of exploring that.
> 
> On a completely unrelated side note, I am loving the Crowley-Dean bromance to bits. I want them to go on a demon road trip and wear matching sunglasses and sing along to Queen in the Impala together as they ride off into the ~~sunset~~ night to do their evil deeds, bless their black little demonic hearts. Demon BFFs 5eva.
> 
> Ok, shutting up now.


End file.
